Constitutional Law

A sophisticated legal thinker who wishes to work out a fully developed approach to constitutional adjudication must choose two theories, not one. For unless one takes the implausible view that every single case is an evidentiary wipeout under their preferred first-order theory, something more will sometimes be necessary to decide a case. That something is a second-order theory of constitutional adjudication: a theory that does not purport to make any interpretation more (or less) correct, constitutionally speaking, yet still guides a decision-maker after their preferred first-order interpretive theory has run out. This Article’s thesis is that the debate over second-order constitutional theories is both important and generative. Indeed, the dominant, yet unspoken, second-order theory embraced by today’s Supreme Court—the 51–49 rule, under which each Justice votes for the outcome they think is supported by more first-order evidence than any other outcome, no matter how slight the difference—is far from inevitable. Armed with a better second-order theory, judges who disagree vehemently over how to interpret the Constitution might still find their way to consensus in some of the most weighty and difficult cases of the day.

The Eighth Amendment has long been understood to bar state-inflicted torture. Yet a fundamental paradox persists: The same circumstances that constitute torture sufficient to authorize an individual's capital sentence are routinely present on death row. Drawing on a systematic analysis of state definitions of torture utilized in capital proceedings, this Comment proposes a resolution to this paradox, arguing for the creation of a new, state-informed torture standard consistent with the Supreme Court’s evolving standards of decency framework and better suited to address the diffuse, structural nature of death row conditions than the Court’s existing Eighth Amendment criteria.

The Trump administration removes noncitizens to third countries—places they may never have visited—based solely on diplomatic assurances, with no notice, no individualized assessment, and no judicial review. This Comment argues that 8 U.S.C. § 1231(b)(3)’s mandatory prohibition on removal to danger and the Fifth Amendment’s due process guarantee both require process-based judicial review of these determinations. Drawing on the CAT extradition framework and Mathews v. Eldridge, it proposes a four-factor test courts can apply without second-guessing executive foreign policy judgments. D.V.D. v. Department of Homeland Security, before the First Circuit at the time of writing, provides the vehicle.

This Article is the first comprehensive account of the constitutional foundations of U.S. extradition practice and its relationship to international law. Through detailed analysis of early American extradition controversies—including the Longchamps Affair and the Robbins case—the Article shows how political actors and courts constructed the modern constitutional law of extradition, resolving key issues concerning presidential power, the role of the states, and the scope of congressional authority. This regime, the Article argues, emerged not from appeals to the constitutional text or original understandings, but rather from structural intuitions, consequentialist considerations, and, as time went on, historical traditions. The Article also complicates the dominant narrative of a unilateral “imperial presidency” in foreign affairs by showing that, because of the liberty interests involved, extradition authority evolved and remained as a shared power, requiring a treaty-based or statutory foundation as well as judicial involvement.

For decades, it has been black letter law that the informal exercise of government power can violate the First Amendment when it creates an “informal system of censorship.” Lower courts have been deeply divided about what kinds of government actions create this kind of informal system. The Court’s recent NRA v. Vullo decision holds that officials engage in informal censorship whenever they intentionally use informal power to evade First Amendment constraints on their formal powers. Vullo clarified that the rule against informal censorship is categorical: officials may never evade constitutional constraints by threatening harm or promising benefits to private parties, no matter how they attempt to do so. This Article argues that the Court's reaffirmation of the categorical nature of the First Amendment rule against informal censorship is very good and comes at a critical time. The Article examines the doctrine prior to the decision, the significance of Vullo’s intervention, and its implications.

This Article considers how and under what circumstances the “general law,” a species of unwritten law grounded in legal customs and practices shared across different legal jurisdictions, might be used in modern constitutional interpretation. Constitutional originalists have increasingly argued that central provisions of the Constitution incorporate various bodies of general law. This Article argues that, even if the Constitution did incorporate various bodies of general law, most of those bodies of law have now been emptied of content, and must remain empty without profound changes in the practice of federal judicial review. Because the general law requires that nonfederal judicial actors such as state courts, governors, legislatures, the President, and perhaps foreign legal systems participate in the development of public law norms and customs, a general law revival would involve eliminating, or at least curtailing, federal judicial supremacy and would therefore impliedly reject nearly a hundred years of public law precedent.

How many amendments are in the Constitution? Americans should be able to know. But whether the Equal Rights Amendment is—right now—part of the Constitution remains controversial. Thirty-eight states have sought to ratify it, several of them after the seven-year deadline in the proposing resolution. Given President Joe Biden’s last-minute claim that the ERA is now the Twenty-Eighth Amendment, in a future administration this lingering debate could provoke a minor constitutional crisis. Yet there may be a legal answer. Congress has long placed operative language in amendment resolutions that modifies the legal force of the proposed text—not only in the Bill of Rights, as is well-known, but also in the Twelfth and Seventeenth Amendments. This language was deliberately chosen, was repeated by state ratifications, and seems to have been accepted as legally effective. This historical practice suggests that, under Article V, the resolution is the amendment: What matters is the entire constitutional change that Congress proposes, not just the additional language it would append. This understanding means that certain parts of the 1788 Constitution have been repealed, not just superseded. It also means that the ERA’s deadline rendered it incapable, even with thirty-eight states’ assent, of making any change to the Constitution’s text once seven years had passed. Both President Biden’s statement and the ongoing lobbying efforts are therefore seriously misguided. In a divided society, losing consensus on the Constitution’s text carries an especially high cost: The National Archives is the wrong place to play with fire.

The Constitution’s pardon power offers a direct path to protect an ally from federal criminal liability. However, another vehicle for absolution exists—one which simultaneously avoids public scrutiny while securing amnesty. By issuing a discreet, specific nonenforcement directive to the Department of Justice (DOJ), a politically vulnerable President can achieve the result of pardon without signing one. This phenomenon, which this Essay terms the “shadow pardon,” transforms prosecutorial discretion into a covert form of amnesty, invisible to the public and immune from reversal once the relevant crime’s statute of limitations expires.

In the Supreme Court’s recent United States v. Skrmetti (2025) decision, Justice Amy Coney Barrett raised the novel question: Does the United States have a long-standing history of de jure discrimination against transgender people, perpetrated by state actors through the force of law?
This Essay provides the beginnings of an answer to Justice Barrett’s inquiry, demonstrating that throughout the history and geography of the United States, government actors have used the law to discriminate against people who deviate from narrow, essentialist notions of sex and gender.

The central concern of structural constitutional law is the organization of governmental power, but power comes in many forms. This Article develops an original account of data’s structural law—the processes, institutional arrangements, transparency rules, and control mechanisms that, we argue, create distinctive structural dynamics for data’s acquisition and appropriation to public projects. Doing so requires us to reconsider how law treats the category of power to which data belongs. Data is an instrument of power. The Constitution facilitates popular control over material forms of power through distinctive strategies, ranging from defaults to accounting mechanisms. Assessing data’s structural ecosystem against that backdrop allows us to both map the structural law of data and provide an initial diagnosis of its deficits. Drawing on our respective fields—law and computer science—we conclude by suggesting legal and technical pathways to asserting greater procedural, institutional, and popular control over the government’s data.